


Bless Us, Every One

by ratherastory



Series: Fusion 'verse [28]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fusion 'verse. Castiel accompanies Dean and Sam to Dean's office Christmas party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bless Us, Every One

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Note #1: From a prompt by [](http://roque-clasique.livejournal.com/profile)[**roque_clasique**](http://roque-clasique.livejournal.com/) at the current meme going on at [](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/profile)[**hoodie_time**](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/). Dean's leg is messed-up forever and ever (obvi), and he has to use one crutch to get around. He and Sam have settled down somewhere, have been there a year or so, and they get invited to a neighborhood holiday costume party. "Dress up like your favorite holiday character!" Dean goes as Tiny Tim. By the end of the party he's drunk and giggly and won't stop squeaking, "God bless us, one and all!"  
>  Neurotic Author's Note #2: Okay, this is poor [](http://roque-clasique.livejournal.com/profile)[**roque_clasique**](http://roque-clasique.livejournal.com/) 's prompt in spirit only. I'm not linking it at the meme because it ended up not being about Dean and being mostly about Cas and about Sam. Dean is in here a fair bit, but I don't think it counts enough as hurt!Dean to qualify for the meme. /o\ I'M SORRY, ROQUE!  
> Neurotic Author's Note #3: This is set waaaaaaay after [Many Happy Returns](http://ratherastory.livejournal.com/208276.html). Same year (which in the **Fusion** timeline would actually put it in 2013, since unlike Show I am a big fan of continuity), about seven months later. For those of you who are wondering, yes, I will eventually explain what happened to Cas in a different story.  
>  Neurotic Author's Note #4: This got way longer and more meandering than I intended. Oops? It's also unbeta'd.

And who are you meant to be?"

"I am an angel of the Lord."

Castiel understands, now, why Dean encouraged him to don this particular costume. It's not all that different from the clothes he likes to wear on a regular basis —the one objective reminder he has that this body has not always belonged to him— and allows him to remain entirely truthful about who and what he is. Castiel has never been especially adept at lying convincingly, which he is fairly sure is partly what got all of the earth into the mess it took so long to clean up to begin with. So donning a costume of a fictional angel seems like a logical enough choice, now that he's being questioned about it.

Sophie, the owner of the small bookstore that Dean has been working in for nearly two years now, is dressed up as some sort of green creature in a Santa Claus costume. She smiles in recognition and nods.

"Oh, I get it. You're Clarence!"

Castiel tilts his head in assent. "That's right." He's a little embarrassed that it's only now, four years later, that he finally understands the demon Meg's taunt.

"I heard a bell ring earlier. Does that mean you have your wings?"

He's fairly sure it's meant to be a joke. "I already have my wings."

"Right, from saving George Bailey," she agrees easily. "So how come I can't see them?" she winks at him.

"If I were to manifest in my true angelic form, it is almost one hundred percent certain that your eyes would burn right out of your skull."

"Okay. I'm pretty sure that wasn't in the movie."

"I wouldn't know, but Dean tells me it's a classic." He reaches up to fiddle with the unaccustomed bow tie, stops himself before he accidentally unties it and has to ask Dean to fix it for the fourth time this evening.

Sophie gapes a little, then breaks into musical laughter. "You've never seen 'It's a Wonderful Life,' Cas? Oh, we shall have to remedy that. Dean is right, it is a classic. Don't worry, I have several copies, we'll make sure you're properly educated before Christmas rolls around."

"I am sorry, but I already promised Dean that I would watch it with him and Sam. He said that we would watch it on Christmas morning, after we open presents. That is the custom, at least. Afterward we are meant to watch 'Die Hard,' which is also a Christmas movie."

"Oh, I see," Sophie's smile turns knowing. "Well, I certainly don't want to ruin Sam and Dean's Christmas traditions. You let me know if you want to re-watch it later, though, or anything else, and we'll make a date of it. Are you enjoying the party?"

Castiel looks around at the large gathering of people milling about in the tiny bookstore. He helped Dean and Sophie to put up all the decorations a few days ago, and this afternoon they moved aside some of the furniture in the corner usually reserved for the comfortable reading chairs in order to accommodate a large table which is now groaning under the weight of an enormous amount of food and drink. It's warmer than usual in the bookstore, the ceiling festooned with gold, silver and red tinsel, strings of tiny lights casting a spray of refracted colour against the white plaster. There's a small CD player in the corner piping Christmas music into the room. Dean spent the better part of an afternoon and evening compiling all the Christmas music he could find onto a collection of CDs, using Sam's laptop to burn them. He'd insisted that Castiel listen to each song, grinning excitedly, and Castiel hadn't seen a reason not to.

"It's very festive."

That earns him another laugh, and Sophie gives him a pat on the arm just below his shoulder. "That's pretty much the idea, Clarence. What, don't you have Christmas parties where you come from?"

"Not exactly. Besides, the idea that Christ was born in December is historically inaccurate. It was simply an attempt by the Christian church to—"

"—co-opt the pagan solstice celebrations of the time in order to give Christianity more influence and credibility, I know, Cas," she chides him gently. "And the story of the birth of Christ closely mimics the myth of Mithras, etcetera etcetera. I do read, you know. I figure it's been long enough that we can count this a tradition and just go with it. And just so you know, I already had this argument with Sam nearly two weeks ago."

Castiel casts about for an escape, but Dean is far away across the room, sitting in one of the reading chairs with his leg propped up on a low stool, an old-fashioned wooden crutch leaning against the chair in lieu of his usual metallic cane. It's part of Dean's costume, along with a ragged sweater and scarf and oversized cap. Sam made a joke about Tiny Tim when the theme of the party was first announced —to dress as a character from a book or movie, so long as Christmas was central to the story— and to his and Castiel's surprise, Dean loved the idea. He's been seated in the same spot for over an hour now, allowing people to ply him with drinks, going so far as to hold out his glass and pitch his voice comically in order to request in falsetto: "Please, sir, I want some more!" He's already waved aside Sam's objection that he's quoting the wrong Dickens novel, and no one else has bothered to correct him. Sophie is still right there, and since there is no salvation to be had on Dean's part, Castiel attempts an apology.

"I didn't mean to cause offence."

She rolls her eyes. "None taken. I'm beginning to see what Dean meant about your having a stick up your ass, Cas. Don't worry about it. I just wanted to make sure you're having a good time. Dean certainly is," she smirks, turning to look over her shoulder to where Dean is brandishing his crutch a little unsteadily at a group of middle-aged women who are all laughing hard enough to almost drown out the sound of his voice.

"God bless us, every one!"

Sophie snorts and giggles into her drink. "At least he's got the voice down. I think he's a little too tall for Tiny Tim, though."

"He liked the idea, though."

"I'll bet he did. Although I still think Sam should have been Bob Cratchit instead of Jacob Marley. I will say I'm impressed that he's actually wearing those chains, they must be really heavy, but Bob Cratchit would have suited his personality better, I think. He's way too sweet for Marley."

"Dean insisted. He says that Sam is always looming and droning on about how he needs to improve himself, and that the costume would be more fitting," he explains, not knowing quite what to make of Sophie's amused smile. He decides to play it safe and change the subject, just in case. "I'm not sure I recognize your costume. Which story is it from?"

"Oh, Cas, you don't recognize the Grinch? I'm disappointed," Sophie pouts. "Come on, really? 'You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch!'" she sing-songs, although he doesn't recognize the tune. She must see the incomprehension on his face, because her expression turns a little more gentle and patient. "It's a children's book called 'How The Grinch Stole Christmas.' It was made into a couple of movies, too. Come on, we have a copy in the children's section, I'll show you."

Obediently he follows her through the stacks, lets her hand him a large hard-cover copy of a book with a greenish yellow, wicked-looking creature on the front. "I have never heard of any creature called a grinch," he ventures.

"Seriously, have you lived under a rock your whole life? How do you not know Dr. Seuss? It's a make-believe character, just like the Sneetches and the Cat in the Hat." Sophie sighs. "Okay, never mind for now, but after the holidays, you and I are going to catch you up on some things you've missed in what was clearly a deprived childhood, starting with 'Green Eggs and Ham.' I bet you that that was probably Sam's favourite book when he was a kid."

"Why's that?"

"It has a character named Sam in it. Little kids love it when they think stories are about them."

"Oh."

Sophie tilts her head consideringly. "You're an odd duck, aren't you, Cas?"

"So Dean tells me. Have I said something inappropriate?" Castiel fiddles with his bow tie again, and his heart sinks when he feels the knot unravel in his fingers. "Damn."

"Here," Sophie reaches over to fix it for him. "You're doing just fine, just stop messing with your bow tie and you won't have problems."

"Dean says I should try to be more... sociable," Cas stands stock-still as her hands move at his throat. "I'm not very good with people."

"A lot of soldiers aren't. Don't worry about it, you're not nearly as bad as some of the people I've had to deal with. I work in retail, you wouldn't believe the kind of stuff I put up with. How're you doing, by the way? I know that injury sidelined you for a while, but Dean is frustratingly discreet when it comes to keeping his friends' counsel. It's a quality, I know, but this is a town full of busybodies, and I'm not ashamed to be part of them."

Castiel rubs instinctively at the spot below his ribcage where a sword ran him through. The wound has healed, but there is a noticeable scar even on his vessel, and sometimes it aches and pulls like a sore muscle. "I am recovered, thank you."

"So are you being given a medical discharge, or will you be going back into service?"

Castiel squirms. "I don't know yet."

"Okay, I can tell when I'm beaten," Sophie smiles. "Let's get back to the party. I have guests to mingle with and you can find Sam and Dean and tell them all about how the scary book lady asked you a bunch of personal questions in a secluded part of the stacks."

"I think Dean would approve, actually," he tells her, and she laughs and steers him back toward the party, where Dean is embellishing his Tiny Tim act with a truly atrocious Cockney accent, to the uproarious amusement of his audience. "I don't see Sam."

Sophie's expression turns serious. "Me neither. He was over there talking to Margery before," she says, pointing to a far corner.

They find Margery fussing with a basket of muffins at the food table, and she immediately looks worried when they ask after Sam. "No, I haven't seen him in a little while. Do you think he's wandered off?"

"I hope not. We should ask Dean," Sophie suggests, but Castiel puts a hand on her arm to stop her, motioning to where Dean is sitting, relaxed and more than a little tipsy. He's not sure how much Dean has had to drink, but it's definitely more than usual. He barely touches alcohol these days, especially since Sam doesn't drink at all anymore.

"Let's see if we can find him first. He may not have gone far, and it might not be necessary to worry Dean right away."

It's cold outside, the roads slippery with black ice, and on their way over there were two near-misses when it was only Sam and Castiel's timely interventions that kept Dean from falling. The minute he thinks Sam might be in trouble Dean will be out there trying to find him, adding alcohol to the already perilous mix of crutch and icy sidewalks. Sophie nods reluctantly, glancing at Dean and presumably coming to a similar conclusion.

"All right. I didn't see him go out the front, but there's no alarm on the fire exit through the back. Let's try there."

She pulls on a coat over her costume, and he follows her past the party-goers and into the back room that doubles as an office and employee break room, complete with chairs and a worn-out sofa. After that it's just a question of pushing open the fire escape door and stepping out into the back alley. Castiel's breath plumes before him in the cold night air, the quiet ringing in his ears now that the noise of the party is gone. It's snowing lightly, and there's a fine dusting of powder on the ground, covering the ice beneath. He makes a mental note to ask if someone can drive them all back to the house after the party, because it's more than likely Dean won't be able to keep his footing well enough to get home without incident.

"This way," he says, pointing at the large footprints in the snow that the light snowfall hasn't managed to cover up entirely.

The tracks lead away from the door in a straight line that wavers occasionally. A few dozen yards away the snow is disturbed, as though Sam slipped on the ice and went down on one knee. There's a hand print in the snow, fingers splayed. They find Sam just around the corner, sitting on the ground with his back up against the wall of another building, shivering hard, teeth chattering loudly. He's fumbling at the chains that make up part of his costume with fingers that have turned red and blue from the cold. Judging by the traces in the snow nearby, Sam slipped and fell and simply didn't get back up. Sophie starts forward, but Castiel stops her, drops to a crouch next to Sam, keeping his stance as non-threatening as possible.

"Hello, Sam. Why are you out here?"

Sam looks up, startled. "I... Cas?" he squints against the falling snow, as though he's not sure he can trust what he's seeing.

"It's me. Are you all right?"

Sam shakes his head, looks back down and keeps tugging at his costume. "I'm sorry, I just... I need them off. I need them off and I can't —I don't know, I know it's a costume and it's stupid but I could hear —shit," his breath hitches, and he pulls at the chain that Castiel helped him wrap around his left wrist earlier this evening, to no avail. "I thought if I got some air, but it's snowing and it was cold and I can't —I need them off, Cas, please!"

Castiel puts a hand on Sam's shoulder to quiet him. "Of course. Hold still, and I'll unwind the chain. Hold still," he repeats, "I have to touch your wrists to do this, all right?"

Sam nods miserably, each breath still hitching audibly, and Castiel can see that he's trying very hard not to cry. "I'm so sorry, I never thought... but I could hear them clinking together and it all kept getting brighter and louder and I tried, Cas, I swear to God, but I couldn't see anymore, and—"

"It's okay," Castiel hushes him, easily unwinds the chains from his arms. They're not very long, not very heavy either, just a couple of lengths that Dean bought months ago at the hardware store, and the metal is cold against Castiel's skin. Sam's hands jerk back slightly as Castiel's fingers brush against the skin of his wrists, but he visibly steels himself to let Castiel finish working, eyes squeezed tightly shut, breath coming faster and faster until Castiel begins to worry he's going to pass out. "Sam," he says sharply, "you need to stay calm. You are safe. Open your eyes and look at me, Sam. Do you hear what I'm saying? Sam!"

Sam's eyes snap open and his breathing slows a fraction. He nods, swallows hard, jerks back again as Castiel removes the rest of the chains from where they're draped over his shoulders. He's shivering harder, and it's obvious that unless they get him back inside soon, they will have to add hypothermia to their growing list of problems.

"Sam, how bad is it? What are you seeing?"

"I don't know. It's bright," Sam mumbles. "It's better. I'm okay. Please don't tell Dean?"

"Why not, Sam?" Castiel starts a bit at the sound of Sophie's voice. He'd forgotten she was there for a few minutes.

Sam shakes his head, doesn't look at her, keeps his gaze trained on Castiel. "You don't have to tell him, he's enjoying himself. I'm okay, I'm okay, I just needed them off. Please, Cas, I don't want to wreck this for him too. I screw everything up," he adds quietly, eyes cutting away.

Castiel pulls him to his feet by his elbow. "No, you don't," he says firmly, brushing the snow from his hair and shoulders. Sam's pants are soaked through with snow, but there's nothing they can do about that right now "Can you walk?" he asks, and Sam nods.

"Don't let go, please?"

"I won't. Hold onto me, and we'll go back inside," Castiel tells him. "You're wet and freezing and will get sick if we don't get you warmed up. Come on, one step at a time."

Sam clutches at him, threatening to send them both spilling back to the ground, squeezing his eyes shut again. Castiel was in Hell for a long time, fighting his way through legions of demons in order to pull Dean out, and he knows a little of what it's like down there for a human. He never made it close to Lucifer's Cage —the few angels who did get near perished almost immediately— but he remembers the distant glow of light so cold that he could feel it to his very core, and he can't begin to imagine what it must have been like in there for Sam, for all those years. That Sam is doing better now, two and a half years later, is undeniable and cause enough to rejoice, but the fact remains that the Cage still dominates the greater part of his existence, kept at bay only with the greatest of efforts on all their parts. If past experience is anything to go by, all Sam is seeing right now is the bright light of the Cage, with only the briefest flashes of what's really in front of him. Sometimes Castiel finds himself wondering how Sam finds the courage to so much as take a step forward on any given day, when all he can see in front of him is torment.

"Sam, I need you to open your eyes, or we'll both fall." He looks up as Sophie takes a step forward, obviously meaning to help, and shakes his head. She backs up, hands shoved in the pockets of her coat. Sam is shivering harder than ever, but he opens his eyes and stands on his own long enough for Castiel to remove his own coat and drape it over his friend's shoulders. "That should keep you warm enough until we get inside. Come on, you can hold onto me, but keep your eyes open, all right?"

Sophie hurries ahead of them as they make their way unsteadily back toward the bookstore. Sam clings to Castiel's arm, but he walks the whole way under his own power and doesn't stumble, eyes trained on the ground, carefully watching where he puts his feet. Sophie holds the door open for them, and Castiel steers Sam over to the sofa.

"I'll go pour a mug of coffee. I just made a fresh pot before we went out. Sam, do you want me to fetch Dean?"

"No," Sam shakes his head, . "No, I'm okay," he manages, teeth chattering, hands wedged under his arms. "Leave him be, it's fine. He's enjoying the party. I'm okay."

Sophie grimaces. "I don't think you are, Sam," she says gently. "I'll go pour you some coffee, and I'm going to get Dean. If you were my brother, I'd want to know if you were soaking wet and bordering on hypothermia in the back room. He worries about you, you know."

"I know," Sam says quietly.

"She's right," Castiel tells him as Sophie leaves, sitting next to him on the sofa. "We should go home. You need dry clothes, and I suspect Dean has probably had too much to drink by now anyway." Sam snorts at that but doesn't say anything. "Can you move your fingers?" Castiel is worried about frostbite, but Sam obligingly wriggles his fingers a little stiffly. "Well, at least there's no permanent harm."

Sam sniffs and wipes at his face with the sleeve of Castiel's coat. "Can't even give him one freaking night off," he says, apparently to the carpet. "It's not fair, Cas. He was enjoying himself, and I wrecked it. He deserves a night off."

"No, it's not fair. But if I have learned anything from working with you and your brother, it's that life is very rarely fair. Would you like me to get Dean instead of Sophie?" he asks. Sam's shoulders slump in defeat, but he nods. "All right. I will be right back."

He finds Dean exactly where he left him, still doing his best impression of Tiny Tim, this time for an entirely different audience of middle-aged women. Dean halts halfway through a tirade about a goose as large as he is, turns his head at Castiel's approach as though he could sense him coming. It's more than likely, in fact —a lifetime of hunting has honed Dean's instincts for potential danger.

"Cas? What's wrong?"

He leans down, one hand on the arm of Dean's chair. "You should come with me. We need to take Sam home."

"Shit," Dean struggles to get out of the chair. "Cas, can I get a hand, here?" he says a little petulantly, and Castiel immediately proffers an arm to brace him so he can get up. "What happened?" he asks, his audience already forgotten. "Is Sam okay?"

They leave the crutch behind. Dean doesn't need it to walk, and with Dean in his current state of partial inebriation Castiel decides it would be more of a hindrance than anything else. He keeps one arm around Dean's waist and the other under his elbow to help him along.

"Sam is fine. He had an episode and got lost outside, but Sophie and I found him before any real damage was done. He's wet and cold, but otherwise unharmed. I think the chains on his costume were perhaps a poorly considered choice."

"Shit," Dean swears again. "I never even thought... God, I am so fucking stupid, I should have—"

"Dean," Castiel interrupts, "you couldn't possibly have known, and blaming yourself is entirely counterproductive. Sam is fine, he's just concerned that he ruined your evening."

"He ruined —God, only he could have a goddamned flashback and get lost in the snow and worry that he's wrecking someone else's good time." Dean snorts, but Castiel can hear the anxiety underneath the words. "How bad is he?"

"I told you, he's all right. He's merely shaken up, and he needs some dry clothes," Castiel opens the door and motions to the sofa where Sam is still huddled under his coat as proof.

Dean immediately extricates himself from Castiel's grip and limps over to Sam a little more unsteadily than usual, letting himself drop unceremoniously onto the sofa next to his brother. "Hey, Sammy. Cas tells me you went out to make snow angels without me? I'm a little hurt you decided to leave me out, dude."

Sam shivers, ducks his head and leans into Dean's chest, tucking himself under Dean's arm when he slings it casually over Sam's shoulders. "Sorry."

"Yeah, our rule of not your not apologizing for this sort of thing still applies. Even during Christmas parties, got it?" Sam nods, shivers again, and Dean rubs his arm. "You want to tell me what happened?" Sam shakes his head this time. "Okay, then."

"I want to go home," Sam murmurs into Dean's sweater, and Dean squeezes his shoulder.

"Yeah, okay. You're soaking wet, and besides, I owe Perry like, a million pats and maybe a couple of doggie treats for leaving her alone all night. You okay, Sammy?"

"I don't know. Sorry."

"Don't make me repeat the no apology rule," Dean looks up, past Castiel to where Sophie has appeared in the doorway with a mug of hot coffee.

She holds up the mug with an oddly shy smile. "I was going to give you a few more minutes, but the coffee was getting cold. I even put vanilla-flavoured creamer in it."

Dean flashes her a grateful smile in return. "Sophie, you are a pearl among women, have I ever told you that?" he says, and she blushes as she hands over the mug.

Castiel pulls her aside while Dean uses his free hand to keep the coffee from spilling over Sam's hands, still shaking from the cold and the remnants of fear. "Do you think someone would be willing to drive us home? The less Sam is out in the cold the better, and I'm not sure Dean is up to walking the whole way, in any event."

"Of course. I've got my car just in front, and no one will miss me for a few minutes. Let me just go tell Margery so she can keep an eye on things, okay? I'll grab the coats on my way out and I'll come around the back, so you don't have to go through the whole store to get out."

"Thank you."

"It's nothing."

It takes a little bit of effort to get both Dean and Sam up off the sofa, and Castiel is hard-pressed to tell which one of them is more unsteady on his feet. They end up leaning on each other, Sam bracing Dean and Dean leading Sam, and somehow they make it work, the way they always have. Sam helps Dean into the back seat of Sophie's little car so that his back is against the door on the driver's side, right leg stretched out along the seat so that he can brace his left foot in the footwell. He wedges himself into the back seat on the other side, Dean's right foot in his lap, gives Dean's shin a casual pat, as though reassuring himself that they're both as fine as they're going to be for now. Castiel is left with no choice but to sit in the front seat beside Sophie, and spends the five-minute drive racking his brain in an effort to find a suitable topic for small talk. By the time he settles on the weather, they're already pulling up in front of the house, and he's able to avoid the whole problem by helping Dean out of the car while Sam stands out of the way, beginning to shiver again in the cold night air.

It's Dean who thanks Sophie, insists that they'll be fine now that they're home, and determinedly steers Sam up the walkway and into the house, where he insists that Sam strip off his wet clothes and head into a hot shower. "Now, Sam, I mean it," he says, all but shoving Sam up the stairs while Perry dances excitedly around them both, keeping only the bare minimum of distance necessary not to trip Dean up accidentally.

"Dean, be careful, your leg—"

"Never mind my leg, you're like a human popsicle. Perry, sweetheart, I will pat you in a second. Sit!" he orders, and Perry immediately drops to her haunches at the foot of the stairs, tongue lolling, apparently not in the least disappointed at not being petted immediately. "Good girl. Now, stay. I will call you in a minute, okay? Sam, let go of my arm. I can't climb the stairs as fast as you, and I want you stripped and in the shower by the time I get up there, got it?"

"How much have you had to drink?" Sam objects quietly, but he heaves a resigned sigh, lets go of his brother and trudges reluctantly up the stairs.

"Not nearly enough," Dean mutters darkly, watching him go. He half-turns on the stairs. "Hey, Cas, you good? You barely said anything on the way back."

Castiel pauses in the middle of hanging up their coats in the hall closet. "I'm fine. Surely there's been enough worry to go around already today?" he points out, and Dean grins sheepishly.

"Yeah, well, worrying is what I do best. Seriously, thank you for looking out for Sammy. I just... I wasn't paying attention, and—" Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, guilt and worry and reproach etched into every line on his face, until the only thing Castiel can think to do is to stop what he's doing, go straight to Dean and grasp him firmly by the arm.

"Let me help you upstairs. You can change out of your costume. It will be more comfortable that way."

Not to mention that Dean will be that much closer in order to make sure that Sam is all right, but there seems to be little point in mentioning that right now. He lets Dean go up the stairs mostly on his own, lending a hand every so often when Dean falters, follows him into his bedroom and lets Dean brace himself against him in order to sit on the bed. After more than two years of living with a fused knee, Dean has mostly gotten past being embarrassed at needing help for things like changing in and out of his clothes, and so he pulls off his sweater, undoes the button and zipper on his pants before letting Castiel pull them the rest of the way off. Castiel hands him a sweatshirt and waits until he yanks it over his head before helping him pull on a pair of sweatpants, lays out the pair of slippers with rubber soles that Dean likes to wear around the house in winter.

"Best maid service ever," Dean says quietly, and when Castiel glances up he's wearing the fond smile he sometimes has when he's watching Sam on a good day and doesn't think anyone can see him, the kind of smile that makes him look as though his heart is full to bursting and he doesn't know quite what to do about it.

"I try," Castiel replies. "Stay here, I'll check on Sam for you."

He detours by Sam's room first to get some warm pajamas for him, since he's quite sure Sam won't have thought of that before stepping into the shower. He knocks on the bathroom door but doesn't wait before opening it, stepping into the steam-filled room and neatly avoiding the pile of sodden clothes on the floor.

"Sam, I brought you some dry clothes. Are you all right?"

The water switches off and Sam reaches for a towel before pulling back the curtain. He looks much better, his skin pink and glowing from the hot water, hair dripping onto his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm okay. You can tell Dean not to worry."

"Tell him yourself," Castiel hands him a smaller towel so he can dry his hair. "I was thinking of making hot chocolate. Or maybe coffee would be better, in Dean's case. He had a lot to drink."

"Coffee'll just keep him up all night," Sam objects. "You, uh, you don't have to... you know... you've done a lot tonight, Cas," he continues, suddenly awkward. He looks a little comical with his hair tousled from the towel, but Castiel thinks he understands what he's saying.

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to do it. I like hot chocolate. You should comb your hair, or Dean will make fun of you," he points out, and Sam's face lights up with a sudden smile.

"Yeah. Sure, Cas, okay."

When he comes upstairs a little less than fifteen minutes later, he finds Sam curled up next to Dean in his bed, eyes already at half-mast, head resting against Dean's chest, listening to him breathe. Perry is lying on the floor on Dean's side of the bed, for all intents and purposes dead to the world, breathing peacefully, one paw twitching ever so slightly as she dreams. Dean nudges Sam until he sits up, scrubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. He looks pleasantly surprised when he finds a mug of hot chocolate being pressed on him, sits against the headboard with his knees drawn up to his chest, blowing on the scalding liquid before taking a careful sip.

Dean grins at Cas, his top lip covered in white foam. "The marshmallows were a touch of genius, Cas. Why the hell are you still standing up?" He shifts over on the bed and pats the mattress next to his hip. "Come on, it's just awkward with you standing there."

"I do know the basics of making hot chocolate."

There is no way he's going to fit next to both Dean and Sam on the bed, but he steps over Perry and sits at the foot of the bed, leaning against the wooden footboard, carefully skirting Dean's injured leg. He knows that Dean rarely experiences pain in it any longer, but it can't take much pressure when it's stretched out this way. He settles in comfortably with his mug, watching as Dean fusses quietly over Sam, and can't quite help the pang he feels at the thought that, soon, he won't be able to have this anymore. Sam and Dean have their own lives here, and since he's as healed as he's going to be from his injuries, he has no reason to impose on them any longer.

"Hey, Cas," Dean appears to read his mind. "Do you really have to go back? I mean, you nearly died... don't you think they can cut you some slack up there?"

He shakes his head. "I have already stayed longer than I should."

Dean chews on his lip. "You're at least going to stay until Christmas, right? I mean, you and Sam went to all that trouble to put up the tree and decorate the place, seems a shame for you to miss Christmas after all that."

"Of course."

Dean looks over to where Sam is drowsing again, grabs his mug as it tilts loosely in his grasp and places it on the night table. Sam settles back against his brother, one hand resting lightly on his chest, succumbs entirely to the pull of sleep, and Dean pets his hair briefly before giving Castiel a small smile.

"Well, good. And, you know, Sam and me... well, we miss you when you're not around. It doesn't feel the same without you. You know you're welcome, right? I know it's not as exciting as whatever it is you're doing up there in Heaven, but anytime you want to come and stay, you shouldn't hesitate, okay?"

The mug is still warm in Castiel's hands, the heat spreading through his palms into his whole body. The room is quiet, the night outside clear and utterly still. He glances out the window at the still-falling snow, and smiles.

"I would like that, very much."


End file.
